Poetry

By

Ricky Garni

THE FUNERAL

If only we were doing something simple, like eating peaches. But peaches are so sloppy and slurpy and juicy and orange and yellow and soft and hairy fuzzy and round and pêche and prunus and Van Gogh and Rubens and Persian and drupe and plum-like and honey bee-loved.

I once saw a man in China pointing his peach bow towards the sky and shooting his arrows. Begone, evil! he cried, and all the evil went away. The honey bees landed on his bow and dozed.

THOREAU

They said it would not rain today, but they did not say that

the dense fog would weigh upon the sycamore trees until

it fell from the leaves pretending it was rain.

And nearby ducks imitated the sound of ducks

being hit by a car.

Ricky Garni

Ricky Garni was born and raised in Miami and Maine. He works as a graphic designer by day and writes music by night. COO, a tiny collection of short prose printed on college lined paper with found materials such as coins, stamps, was recently released by Bitterzoet Press.